Call Of The Sea
by amoony
Summary: "Do you remember those stories about sailors and sirens? All I know is that I'm helpless against whatever spell she holds over me, just like them." "Remember how they end, Finnick. They sink into the sea forever. Sirens are deadly." "You're right. But once you've heard their call, death doesn't matter. You'd do anything to be standing at their side for eternity. That I know."
1. DISCLAIMER

**DISCLAIMER.  
**

_**The characters, the universe and the story line of the Hunger Games Trilogy belong to its writer, Suzanne Collins.**_

**The additional information given on the life of Finnick Odair, District 4, Panem and the plots all come from the author's point of view and imagination.**

**The story is rated with _MAJOR_** **_CONTENT_ as the author makes references to adult themes and violence.**


	2. Chapter I

**CHAPTER I**

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_Today is no usual day. It's reaping day._

I GIVE UP ON SLEEP half an hour before dawn.

I feel relieved when I leave my house behind, which has always been quiet and empty. No one lives there except for me. I've got no family left to whom my luxury house in the Victors Village can benefit. I personally hate it.

I take the trail that leads to a remote part of the beach. I've crossed it so many times that my feet know the way despite the darkness. From there, I have a clear view on the port without being too close to it. I have learned to stay at safe distance from it. Despite my protestations, the Peacekeepers whipped three young boys because they assaulted a victor - which in occurrence was me - some years ago. More than a few people resented me for sad but valid reasons and that event only resulted in adding salt to the wound. Since then, no one has ever dared to attack me in public again; I'm free to wander at the port as much as I'm pleased, but the hostile looks I get from everyone are enough for me to avoid the place as much as I can. On an everyday day, the port starts getting busy at 5 am, but people are be allowed to sleep a few more hours today.

I reach the beach just in time to see the sunrise. It's my favorite time of the day, because it reminds me that life still has some beauty to offer. I stay motionless on the sand, watching the dark sky lightening up from a midnight purple color to various shades of orange and pink, and finally to a bright blue. Today's going to be a wonderful sunny day. It'll be warm, but not too hot. I don't see any cloud who will shadow the day. The only one that will isn't meteorological.

I still have a few hours ahead before the Reaping Ceremony. After that, I'll be on the train that will take me to the Capitol for the following month. What I'd really like is to go sail in the open water and take a swim in the middle of the ocean. Of course, no boat is allowed on the sea during Reaping Day. The authorities wouldn't want any fugitives to go off the dock. Instead, I find myself resting lazily on the sand, basking in the sun. It's funny how you can enjoy the simplest phenomena of life. The sea is so calm today that if you looked into it, you'd see a perfect reflection of yourself, not distorted by ripples.

I've seen this landscape many times over posters and postcards in the Capitol. Believe it or not, the people who live there send to each other travel souvenirs, although a vast majority has never even been on the outside of their beloved Capitol. Sometimes it crosses my mind that their silly lives are as much pathetic as ours in the district, being condemned to divert themselves in their ivory tower forever, without any possibility to open their eyes and see the real world. President Snow makes sure that they can't become anything apart a bunch of total idiots. Still, each time I see their euphoria when kids are being sent to death, I can't think about anything except my hatred toward them.

I really need to gather some peaceful energy before what's going to happen. Every victor find its own way to survive the games. Don't fool yourself, there has never been one. I think that a trip to beach is a lot better than getting drunk like Chaft, a victor from District 11, or even drunker like Haymitch Abernathy, the sole living victor from District 12. I think that it's also a better solution than to turn into morphlings like those from 6. Anyway, I can blame none of them. Coming back to life after the Hunger Games is never entirely done. Some of us do to a certain point, others don't.

For me, life has been hell since I came back from that arena. I often wonder if it would have been better if I died there instead. These kind of thoughts, only victors can have them. Only kids who have killed other kids can feel the pang of remorse they do, even the most brutal of us does. Well, I hope that they do. I know some of them are more killing-machines than humans, but the rest of us are more human than killers. Those are the ones who are always haunted by the tributes they slaughtered. I have no trouble to recall with exactitude the eight lives I have taken with my own hands. I recall their faces when they had looked to my face while they were dying. They will hunt me during my nightmares for all the remaining nights of my life. On the other hand, If I let go their deaths, who will be left to remind them?

I don't have to think about it for now. All I must do is relax and maybe get some sleep, because the Hunger Games don't let the mentors sleep well and for long. Being a mentor is another reminder that the Hungers Games are never finished for you. In District 4, we are lucky to have many victors. The latest victor will mentor with Mag until a new one is crowned, and it goes on and on. Six kids won their games since our district have begun training Careers. That means that a victor will have to mentor for six years, more or less. That's how we proceed in District 4. I wouldn't like to be in Haymitch Abernathy's place. This year will be his twentieth as a mentor and it seems an awfully too long period of time in my opinion.

I close my eyes and eventually succeed to fall asleep. When I wake up, the sun position indicates that the Reaping Ceremony will begin in less than an hour, and no one can miss it, especially not if you're the most famous victor from your district. That means that I'll have to be at the square where the temporary stage will be set up. The square, also known as the port. I take a few minutes more, though, because I don't want to go. I feel good and safe over here. I get on my feet with a sigh and start dusting myself from the sand that sticks to my skin and clothes.

_I'd stay here forever if I could. Only, I can't._

Mags will be worried if I'm not back in time.

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WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TEN, the mayor steps on the podium.**  
**

He begins by the history of Panem during the first fifteen minutes. I don't listen carefully because it's the same thing we hear over and over, year after year. He carries on with the list of past District 4 victors. In seventy years, we've had exactly eight.

_Mags Cohen_ is seated in the first chair on the left side. She's the first victor District 4 ever has had, one that is still alive. She mentors every year and has managed to bring seven kids home, which is admirable. No one argues that she's the smartest and the strongest victor from us all, despite how old, frail and funny she might be looking. Even today, she's still looking out for me. She helps me with the things she has the power to influence, which consist of making sure that I'm eating and that my house is clean and, most of all, that I can trust her with my secrets and fears. She's the only person who still genuinely cares for me.

_Celon Cresta _ volunteered for the first quarter quell and was crown victor. He was the first tribute from District 4 that joined the pack formed by the tributes of District 1 and 2. He killed the third of his opponents, his fellow district tribute included. In his opinion, the best way to bring victors home is to condition children for this only purpose. As a result, kids from the Coast begin training from an early age. He mentored for twelve years, after what he became mayor in his early thirties. He thinks pretty much like our own President Snow; there is no coincidence as to why Celon Cresta rules the district. He makes sure that District 4 is on the right track, which means that whipping and public executions are common to punish the one who doesn't respect the law, no matter the reason. The only thing that matters to him is that District 4 meets its production quotas. He doesn't care about those whose children are hungry or those whose houses are blown by sea storms. It's not surprising that most people hate him. I do too.

_Amon Clearwater_ is a former pupil and close friend of the previous one. He won the thirty-seventh Hunger Games and he's the director of the Careers' school training program. Because the next victor died at a young age, he mentored for ten years. He's had good results to form killing-machines, that's why I don't like him. I don't like him because the Careers are eager to run to their own misfortune without knowing it. He makes them believe that winning the Hunger Games is a great honor, but he's never told them what it costs you as a human being.

_Nellie Orman_ won the forty-second edition. For some reason only known by herself, she died only two years after her victory. Mags has told me that she didn't cope well with the aftermath although she massacred her opponents without any hesitation. One day, she decides to hang herself from the cellar of her bedchamber. A victor who commits suicide doesn't make good press, so the medias pretended she died in a bot accident, end of the story. No one speaks of her anymore.

_Orpheus Fisher_ won his games seven years later. He gathers with the Careers pack of District 4. Mags and I are the only victors who haven't been trained as careers.

_Peter Seton_ won four years after the second quarter quell. Even if he's a Career, I appreciate him at some point because he's the quiet type. He lives in the house next to mine on the right, but I've rarely heard a thing from him and it's not like we talk much together. We've agreed to an unspoken agreement of indifference to each other. He doesn't show superiority or ill will toward me. There's nothing less and nothing more I can ask for.

_Ares Morgan _is a _moron_. This is the only good word that qualifies the guy. Coming from a rich family, he volunteered for the fifty-ninth Hunger Games when he turned eighteen, blood-thirsty as he was and still is. He's the typical Career type, arrogant and man-slaughtering. He mentored my fellow career tribute during my games, clearly convinced that I didn't stand a chance to win. He never even tried to conceal it from me. Since I've proven him wrong, he's seeking for some sort of revenge in any way he can.

_Finnick Oddair_ is currently the youngest victor of District 4 and also the youngest victor in all the history of the Hunger Games, crowned at age fourteen only during the sixty-fifth edition. Famous for his handsome attributes, his charisma and his fighting style known as the retarius, which consists into catching his opponents in a net and then stabbing them to death with a trident, the most expansive gift a tribute ever received from a sponsor. A real Casanova among every woman, especially among the ones from the Capitol. I take place on the last seat on the right side of the stage. This year, at age nineteen, I'll be a mentor for the fifth time.

Mayor Cresta introduces Narcissa Bellaire and she makes a speech about how it's an honor for her to be the escort of District 4. She might be in her early thirties and, to my regret, is one of my most devoted fans. She has dyed her hair from purple to a striking yellow, which is some attempt to make a frivolous imitation of my beloved sunrise, and wears sea-green contact lens because she wants them to be the same color as mine. She's hopeless.

Now, it's time for the draw.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" says Narcissa Bellaire in a Capitol fashioned-way. "Ladies First!"

The Capitol escort crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a single slip of paper in thousands and thousands. She crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice.

"Annie Cresta!"

The crowd makes way around the Cresta girl. She has no other choice aside from walking with reluctant small strides on the straight path that leads to the stage. She mounts the steps, the blood drained from her face. She wears an expansive sea-foam green dress that matches her eyes and a necklace of pearls. Reaping clothes. Her brown hair are flowing in the ocean breeze.

_Annie Cresta_. Of course, everyone knows that name. Years ago, a girl from the Stilts - the poorest part of District 4, fell head over heels in love with a boy who lived on the Coast - the nicer part where the merchant class, the Peacekeepers and the officials reside. They got married and even had a daughter. A few months after their child's birth, the boy was tossed in the sea and the girl ended her life when she saw the body. After the tragedy, the orphan girl went living with her uncle. Children from the Coast eat three days a meal and never lack of anything. The odds had always been in Annie Cresta's favor during the most dreadful day of the year, but they aren't today.

Although all kids are being treated equally in the reaping, no one believed that a slip of paper had the name of a Cresta written on it. The officials' offspring had never been concerned by the reaping for decades. Today's a premiere. Almost everybody in District 4 works from dawn to dusk, but there are still times when there isn't enough to eat. Kids that come from families with ill people, with the main supporter dead or with too many empty bellies end up with more entries. The tesserae are an excellent tool to feed hatred between the workers from the Stilts and the privileged ones from the Coast.

Everyone thinks that District 4 is favored by the Capitol, but it's untrue. The Coast, the public vitrine spread all over the nation, is only one-tenth of District 4's population. The ninety percent left aren't doing much better than those in District 12. Of course, the Medias never broadcast the Stilts. One month before the Reaping Ceremony, they make sure that the population puts on some weight. It goes the same one month before the Victor tour. It gives the illusion that District 4's strong and healthy to every Panem citizen, whereas people are underfed during the ten months left. Dividing the districts' inner people and making the districts resent the ones that are fictionally wealthier is to the Capitol's advantage. _Divide and rule_. They keep us all weak and under control.

"Any volunteer?" asks Narcissa Bellaire.

Today, unlike the previous years, all we hear is the dull whisper of the sea. The Cresta have never done anything to help those from the Stilts, so it's all natural that none of them volunteers to take the girl's place. More surprisingly, even the Careers stay still. I can feel the general satisfaction radiating from the crowd. People would be even more satisfied if it could be the mayor's younger daughter who stands on the stage, but it's already more than everyone could have hoped for. Keeping silence is District 4's revenge over its mayor.

"Very well!" says Narcissa Bellaire. It looks like she's got a too little brain to comprehend what's really going on. "As for the gentlemen…"

She crosses to the glass ball with the boys' names.

"Sasha Sanders!"

A small blonde haired boy, whose clean shirt and Capri pants cover his slim body, walks his way from the back of the crowd. Unlike Annie Cresta, his hands are clenched in fists at his sides. He climbs on the stage, head held high. I know him. He's the little brother of a long time lost friend and must has celebrated his thirteenth birthday a month ago.

"Any volunteer?" Narcissa Bellaire asks.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

None of the boys from the Coast has even gotten the time to raise his voice. A boy comes out from the front line and climbs onto the stage in a matter of time. He's medium height and sturdy; he's got light blond hair and ocean gray eyes. The remarkable attitude of Sasha Sanders is pale in comparison of his sibling's presence. Sasha Sanders' older brother stands straight and solemn, looking like some hero from District 4's old folkloric tales, the ones parents tell their kids when they put them to sleep.

"That's _exactly_ the spirits of the games!" babbles Narcissa Bellaire. "What's your name?"

"Alec Sanders."

_Alec Sanders. _Everyone knows that name too. He's from the Stilts' most esteemed family. Thirty years ago, during one of the hottest summers to be recorded, the sea had been ragging for days. Despite the bad weather, the ships were ordered to sail in the open water and bring back their daily lot of fish. After three crews went missing - most likely engulfed by the waves, a captain refused to go off the dock and risk his twenty men' lives for nothing. The Head Peacekeeper had him publicly whipped and executed for example. Loyal to their captain, the angered crew members lunched at the Peacekeepers and the port became a battlefield between the law-enforcers and the mariners. When the Capitol learned about District 4's situation, thousands of Peacekeepers invaded the place. The whole district - every people confounded - was put on a week lock-down with no food, shutters fastened from the outside and interdiction to leave home. The only time the television showed anything but static was when the instigators of the mutiny sank in the depths of the sea. One day, when everyone battled starvation and hyperthermia, came the mandatory order to gather to the square. Cylon Cresta was nominated as the new mayor of District 4 and usual business returned. Since then, relations between the Coast and the Stilts had been hostile more than ever.

The Odair family were good friends with Alistair Sanders, the captain's son. As fishermen, we lived side by side across the sea. All the fishermen' houses were built on stilts and linked to each other by a web of docks. Alec Sanders and I became best friends naturally. His twin sister would join us in many of our games and soon enough, we were like the three musketeers. Like any poor kids, rocks and pebbles, wood sticks, scrapes of ropes and shells would transform into incredible toys. We learned to follow the steps of our fathers as soon as we could walk. We were told about seamen knots, fishing nets, hooks and how to handle a trident. As soon as we would be old enough, we would work on the boats just like our own fathers and their fathers. Most likely, our own kids would work as fishermen as well. I've always had admiration for the man and the woman who were my father and mother. My father would work on the boat eighteen hours a day, six days a week; my mother would work for some rich families over the Coast as a domestic help. Because of their hard-working nature, my sister and I weren't starving like some kids from the Stilts, but we were still under-fed comparing to those from the Coast.

I wasn't reaped for sixty-fifth Hunger Games. It was a boy named Tom Delmar. He'd always been kind of awkward, mentally retarded, to say the truth. Even if he was fourteen, he wasn't any older than eight in his head. That year, no Career volunteered and no older kid from the Stilts either. It looked like no one would sacrifice his life to save a simple-minded. And so I did it, I took his place. I was in better physical condition than most of the boys from the Stilts anyway, even the ones older than I. Against all odds, I won. I was welcomed back home with praise and my family would never go hungry anymore. It looks that all that fishermen lessons my father gave me have paid off.

The year of the 67th Hunger Games, President Snow invited me to his mansion for a private discussion. Two Peacekeepers escorted me in the maze of corridors and doors up to President Snow's quarters. They motioned me to enter the room. Roses of all colors – cyan blue, purplish-red, yellow sun, key black and all combination between the primary colors - grew everywhere. However, what caught my attention were those perfectly white roses you could find here and there. "A handsome lad like you is a real heart breaker among the Capitol. Do you know that, Mr. Odair?"

I had only spoken with the President twice. The first time had been when I was crowned victor, but I hadn't paid much attention. The second time, we had spoken for three lines exactly. He had congratulated me, I had thanked him, and finally he had said: "Everyone Capitol woman will want to marry you in a few years. Just wait and see." I hadn't given it much thought at the time, but I would later find that the President was right. "Some of your most devoted fans are ready to pay a great deal of money for your company," he continued in an overly-sweet tone. I was aware that I won because many Capitol citizens sponsored me. Without them, I wouldn't have gotten the trident and all those life-saving gifts. I had given my thanks, had signed thousands and thousands of autographs and had taken I-didn't-know-how-much pictures with them. Wasn't that enough? Apparently, it wasn't. "From now on, I expect that you'll spend intimate time with them," he said.

"What if I refuse?" I countered. "Being famous does not come without duties, Mr. Odair," Snow offered. "Take me for example. My position requires my availability twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because if the Capitol released its grip on the districts for even a short time, the entire system would collapse. You see, even the President's life has its own sacrifices." "Well, I'm not the President." I blurted out. "Of course you're not," answered President Snow with a chuckle. "I'm just saying that every citizen must do its contribution toward the society." What had the Capitol ever done apart from enslaving thousands and thousands of human lives? "I still say no, thanks," I said with anger. "You may do as you please. I won't keep you any longer; I think you've got two tributes to get ready for the Opening Ceremony." He said it in a friendly voice, but I knew somehow that I had just made a mistake. President Snow opened a book and started to read, clearly dismissing me. I turned on my heels and headed for the exit. Just before I reached the door, President Snow spoke. "One last thing before you go: every choice we make has its consequences."

The first time I came face to face with a rattlesnake occurred when I was four. It was longer from head to tail than I was from head to toe, body coiled, head raised and rattling. It was clear I had startled the snake and it was ready for self-defense. "Finnick, step back very calmly," had said my mother with weariness. Before I had really understood what was happening, the rattlesnake lunched for me. Luckily, it turned out that the snake had only inflicted a dry bite. The aftermath issued in no real harm done except for two little marks that never disappeared, but I have to admit that I never got ridden of my aversion toward snakes. Even today, I recall this episode each time I come across one. I should have known that President Snow is nothing less than an individual from a specie far more poisonous than the snakes we find in District 4. A creature that only waits for you to do one wrong move before it strikes and causes irreversible damages.

That year, both tributes from District 4 died in slow and painful ways. Really, I couldn't do anything. No Capitol citizen wanted to sponsor the kids, even if our tributes had gotten 8 in training. I watched our boy die from dehydration on the fourth day and the girl was torn into pieces by mutts on the ninth. Neither one nor the other received a single gift attached to a silver parachute, whereas every tribute from the past years managed to get at least one from a sponsor. I knew that it was President Snow's form of punishment for my defiance, but I was wrong. It was only one part of it.

When I returned home, I was welcomed in a first place by a crowd of people that would always blame me for letting these two kids die. And, sadly, I deserved their hostility. But the worst was to come. In second place, they told me that my family went in the open water and never came back. Searches had been abandoned a few days ago. The three persons I cared about the most were gone forever. And that was it. President Snow had delivered the final blow; my entire life had been turned to ashes and bones.

The day of the funerals, President Snow called in person to offer his most sincere condolences. "I want to tell you how very sorry I am about your parents and your little sister." he said. "So unnecessary." "However, I'm happy to know that you've got people who are like a second family to you. The Sanders, am I correct?" My blood turned to ice. I had lost the use of my voice. "Yes, I certainly am. Now, let's talk about serious matters, shall we?" I was still as mute as the dead. "Some Capitol VIPs will be in District 4 tonight. One of them is very eager to spend time with you. I want you to take special care of Miss Abeilia Hart." What choice did I have? "I'll be with whoever you tell me to. Please, don't hurt anyone else_._" I could hear the smile in his voice as his spat his final line. "My boy, _that's _only up to you."

That's how and why I became the Capitol's favorite doll. One made of flesh and blood.

Staying as far as I can from the Sanders is pretty easy. The moment I started to spend time with my adoring fans from the Capitol, the Sanders and I ceased to be friends at once. At age fifteen, Alec and Sandrine became the main supporters of their family. When their father got bitten by a snake, he didn't turn as lucky as I've been. The venom has made him so frail that I can't help asking myself if he'll die right before me each time I get to see him. It's not like I've never tried to offer them money, but the Sanders won't take a single coin from someone they view as traitor. Alec enlisted as a deckhand, Sandrine ended up like many girls who sell their bodies because they're too poor but too pretty. Every time I meet Alec's gaze, I see how much he despises me. By ricochet, every living person from the Stilts does too. It makes me feel miserable, but it is better this way.

"Lets give a big round of applause for our boy tribute!" says Narcissa Bellaire.

The cheering from the crowd goes wild. It isn't meant for the sport of the Hunger Games. It's the call of a human sea that expresses admiration for self-sacrifice. Alec Sanders motions for his sibling to get off the stage. Sasha Sander's life has been spared, at least for this year. The Mayor carries on with the Treaty of Treason, but no one is listening to him. That's when realization hits me. _As long as the Sanders live, people will support each other and will fight if they really stand a chance. The moment the Sanders are dead, everyone will sink into desperation. _From this new perspective, one thought fills my mind.

_I have to bring him back to District 4 alive_.

The two tributes shake hands and they turn toward the crowd as the anthem of Panem begins.


End file.
